Earlier this week, my therapist noted that it has been three years since we first met.
Her name was on a small strip of paper given to me by the midwife’s office, with a list of about 10 names. The slip of paper was between a third and a quarter of a sheet. I wondered how often they printed it, whether they used a paper cutter or whether the distribution was less frequent, perfect for scissors.
I wondered about the other women who received the other slips of paper. Was there anyone else that day, there for a loss follow up? Was there anyone else who was spending her nights sobbing, quietly so as not to wake her toddler, thinking of the sibling he wouldn’t meet?
I wondered if the names on the list were gathered with care?
There were asterisks next to the ones that, in addition to providing talk therapy, could also prescribe medications. I knew the pain I had needed medication, and after doing some research, chose the one therapist that had published a book. I’m not sure I’ll be able to afford to see her much longer, but that’s another story. She’s been amazing. She has helped me process the loss of a baby.
But I knew that something was wrong from the start. It was hard to tell close friends and family, but I was trying to wish away the feeling of dread, a knot in my stomach that told me something was wrong. Call it intuition, maybe.
An initial ultrasound at my first prenatal visit, at eight weeks, confirmed the pregnancy was viable. Because I would soon turn 35, the midwife suggested we consider an early screening for chromosomal abnormalities, which would consist of an ultrasound and blood work.